Page 63 of Mistlefoe
I’m not delusional enough to convince myself he’d say something like that to any other coworker. It was too pointed. Too sweet. Too much like something straight from my deepest fantasies. That’s the part that trips me up and makes me wonder if this is all a figment of my imagination.
As I sit back on the bench, staring at his bent down head as he loosens my skates, I pinch my cheek hard just to make sure. Wincing, the pain confirms I’m very much awake.
A grumble sounds nearby, and it’s from Gramps. He walks over to us, shaking his head, but instead of coming to the bench, he keeps going until he hits the ice with way steadier legs than mine. “Have to do everything around here. Too distracted.”
His grandson’s ears are as red as can be. I have to sit overmy hands so I don’t run them through his hair and tilt his head back so I can kiss him. I have something important to say to him before that.
“I got it from here,” I say as Conor’s about to put on my boots for me.
“Okay.” He sits back on his haunches and his eyes avoid mine. “Guess I’ll go change, too. Meet you out in the corridor.”
“Ah, yes.” I watch him rise with the agility of a gymnast and he walks away even faster, carrying the skates I borrowed in his hand. The back of his neck is burning too, and I have to press a hand against my mouth so I don’t squeal or laugh or something embarrassing like that.
He’s so damn cute, I could die.
Quickly, I put on my boots again and run out of the arena, somehow expecting him to be ready and waiting for me at an inhuman speed. I pause just beyond the last row of seats and take several deep breaths. Conor just put himself out there and I’m about to do the same, big time.
I’ve never done this. I’ve never met a guy that made me want to take an Olympic swan dive into his arms. No one has ever made me feel this safe, while at the same time making me burn up with just a glance. I didn’t even think it was possible, especially for someone like me. And that’s why I have to make sure that Conor knows what he’s buying into, because my name is not quite on the nice list.
Conor appears through the doorway that leads to the offices, one hand in the pocket of his training pants, the other one rubbing his beard, eyes cast down like he’s deep in thought. And if I go by his hunched over shoulders, I can’t imagine they’re the happiest thoughts right now.
I wring my hands, nerves fluttering as he approaches. I open my mouth but he speaks faster.
“Shall we start taping?”
I close my mouth so fast that my teeth make a sound. Then I remember leaving my backpack with the supplies behind. “Right. Let me get my backpack.”
I rush back to the stands and find it on the original seat I took while I watched the class. As I pick it up, I observe Gramps dumping pucks into a basket and his shoulders shake, like he’s either crying or laughing.
Laughing, I confirm as he turns to take the basket over to the bench. I don’t need two guesses to know whose expense it’s at.
I skip back out to the corridor, where Conor’s using a measuring tape to check the span of a booth from the corner nearest to the entrance. “Got the tape?” he asks, his back to me.
“Yes, sir.” I unzip my backpack and grab the first roll of masking tape I can find. “Let’s do this.”
He keeps the measuring tape in place as I crouch down to mark the spot. Conor removes his hand right before mine brushes it and I freeze. But he’s already standing back up to run the measuring tape out, tracing the perimeter of the space the booth will take up in the hallway. He lifts his eyes to mine when he finally notices I’m not moving.
“Sierra?”
My ears roar and I can’t hear what he says after my name. Slowly, I get back up and walk over to where he stands, unfurling the masking tape as I go. My mind races back through what’s happened, like a film montage in rewind, until I reach the exact moment when his mood shifted.
It was when he kind of admitted that he might be into me, and I panicked a bit before Gramps interrupted.
Did Conor take that as a rejection?
It’s okay. I can fix this. I guess I won’t have to wait until January to hash this out. I just need to find the right words to do this correctly.
We work in silence for a while and successfully tape up the blueprint of the first booth. He’s the one who breaks through the quiet. “Wait, which booth is this one going to be? Maybe we should note that down too so we don’t have to think on the day of.”
“Good idea.” I tear a strip of masking tape and put it on the wall where it’ll be most visible. I shrug my backpack off to search for a pen or marker. “Since this is the welcome booth, what do we want people’s first impression to be?”
“Alcohol?” I see him lift a shoulder from the corner of my eye, and he’s still looking at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing.
“We could even cordon it off to keep the rest of the hallway off limits, and direct everyone from booze to getting fitted for skates, then to hitting the ice to find their group for the activities,” I say in a firm tone of voice, pretending that I’m actually paying attention to the work we’re doing, and not like my every cell is tuned up to him.
“Good idea.” He slides over to stretch the tape from wall to wall. “Do we cordon off here?”
“Looks about right.” I finally find a marker at the bottom of my backpack and uncap it to scribble over the tape. “Would that be safe, though? People skating right after hitting the booze booth?”
